THE BABY BIRD FILES

I woke up early. I had plenty of time. I’ve been waiting to do my makeup until after I check in the hotel. It never lasts the two-plus hour drive. Or half of it does and I have to cake on another layer; making me look like a tired ho. I futzed around the house. My plan was to get my car washed as I headed out of town. My car has been a disaster due to an insane tree that’s been coming pollen. Even with all the extra time, I left the house late. How in the shit does that happen? Instead of the full service long ass car wash, I opted for an automated one at a gas station. Me and every other nine to five had the same idea. It took forever and I was boxed in a car line I couldn’t get out of if I wanted to. I waited it out.

            Traffic to Baby Bird has been unbearable lately. It’s not the right state of mind to be in right before I see a trick. I was running late and in my random, penny-saving mind, I decided this would be the day I’d self-park. I had packed four, heavy over-the-shoulder bags, and didn’t realize until it was too late that the lot is a bit of a trek to the front desk. I huffed it. I checked in. I got the key and ran to the bar. I ordered a double tequila/soda and tried to suck it back as I haphazardly threw on makeup. I wasn’t in the particular mood to drink, but knew I needed it. Or did I?

            I wasn’t feeling very sexy. My hair was lackluster. My makeup wasn’t fooling anyone, but there was no turning back now. He text asking for my ETA. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen him. An eternity in man/spit/jizz time. Throwing my hands up at the way I looked, I text him the room number. We’ve adopted a new system in which he brings me a margarita. It’s a good system. I hid my empty tumbler in the closet (I don’t know why I hide the fact that I get a pre-arrival drink) and waited. Dusk happens to be my favorite time of day, the minutes right before a trick arrives is my least. I gargled some mouthwash. The dreaded-yet-necessary-for-it-to-be-over-with knock came. I gathered my happy whore attitude and opened the door.

            “Hi, babe!”

             “Hey there.”

            “How are you?”

            “Better now that I’m here.”

            We kiss and hug. I reach for the cocktail. He comes back in for more mouth. He wants to prolong the kissing. He loves kissing me, I get it, but it’s awkward standing in the hallway. Plus, I wanted a swig. Also, I’d rather lie down and get the show on the road. Now that I think about it, I should lean into the hello kiss as it would eat up time. It’s all about the orgasm and the clock with these hour-long’s (forty-five minutes most times). They want to feel like they got their money’s worth while at the same time they need to finish before the witching hour—when they have to head home to their wives. Sometimes I block the clock or turn it around; pressure to ejaculate doesn’t help anyone, and a trick feeling gypped for time doesn’t help me. Anyway, when a client walks in the hotel room, I’m in let’s-get-this-party-started mode, not, let’s linger in the foyer by the bathroom.

            I take my cocktail and sit on the second bed. If I stay the night it will I’ll be my resting place. I have pillows propped up like a throne on the other bed (he lies there while I do all the work). I drink as he fumbles with the cash. He counts it out every time. I’m not sure why he does this. I’ve known him for two years, I trust him. After he sets it down near me, he goes in for another kiss and asks, “how the girls are doing?” It’s almost annoying when I get a client who likes my tits. I know that sounds insane, and I know I have great cans, but john’s (especially the older ones) tend to be so damn cheesy. I was wearing a bright pink top he’s never seen. The front of which is just a bunch of strings. I used to wear it on stage. It’s a fun shirt, but maybe a little too much access. I’m such a twat. But I play along. I am the one who wore the shirt

            “I don’t know, you tell me” I say with a grin and then take a huge gulp of tequila-flavored patience.

            He leans down in an artless manner and takes a turn sucking each nipple as I drink. After he feels sufficient torture-the-hooker time has passed, he gets up, disrobes down to his tighty whities and waddles to the bathroom. I wish there was a way he could double fist the cocktail run. I’m almost done with the one he brought me. The glassware the hotel bar uses are an optical illusion. They charge you a pretty penny for a trick glass. What he does in the bathroom, I have no idea. I hear water running. It would appear, by the sound and towel used, that he’s washing his bits, but all evidence to that in the olfactory department as we sixty-nine—giving my nose the optimum angle—is to the contrary. His ball section smells like a port-o-potty. Maybe he washes his hands. It’s a must if he plans on touching my vagina. I guess I could hint about a pre-sex ball wash (I bring my own liquid soap) but I’m weary of making my clients uncomfortable before my job is done. I could bring it up post orgasm, however, there’s no delicate way to tell a man his junk smells like a urinal cake.

            He ascends his throne. I put my hair up in a twist and join him. From the foyer incident, I gathered he needed extra make-out time so I left my panties on for now. Baby Bird is oral everything. It’s one of the reasons why he loves me as I tend to be that way myself. Generally speaking, john’s are shitty kissers and therefore I don’t linger on it much, but he’s a good kisser. Aside from the fact that he’s been Mick Jagger’ing me—competing for who can open their mouth the widest—and licking outside my lips (a new, not so great ambush), he kisses how I would kiss a real lover. He didn’t used to slobber all over my face. I drool from above (on his request) or give him my collected saliva during a kiss and he swallows it. This licking nonsense has recently reared its ugly head. I’m not a fan. I know this guy likes a lot of juiciness, but I don’t want him licking my face! Maybe it’s because he’s wife is past menopause; moister might be in short supply. I’m not sure they fuck anymore. I’ll bet the ranch she doesn’t go down on him, store her spit during the act, and plop it into his mouth over and over. I often wonder who has the best gig: the wife who doesn’t work or worry about money but her husband cheats on her, or me, the one who does all this weird sex crap but has my freedom? I think I have it better. I’m done after our time is up. I have cash and can do whatever my heart desires. Whereas, the wives deal with these guys twenty-four seven. Granted, I’m seeing a completely different version of their husbands, but still, I prefer my independence.

            Back to it: I try not to scold clients during copulation, but I was a bit cranky and couldn’t handle the spit parade he was leading. I broke.

            “Honey, you keep giving saliva back to me…” I trailed off and gave him a shy look, trying to word this correctly, “I want to give it to you, but I don’t want it back, you know? A one-way street as it were.” Mind you, I’m saying this as I’m hovering over his seventy-something erection. He’s one of these strange men who never touches his cock. I wonder if he leans over the toilet to pee?

            “I am?” he said, “I’m not trying to. I want all of it, trust me.”  

            I flash him a smile and continue to suck his cock before it deflates. Last thing in the world I want is to start from scratch or him to get into a mental twist before I can get him off. I pulled him back in the moment. Master of redirection. Master of blowjobs. I was ready for him to come. We had already sixty-nined twice with a "backwards cowgirl" (his term for it) thrown in for good measure and a lot of suck and spit. It’s not easy storing saliva like a chipmunk while sucking dick. Plus, I was running out of big gobs of guck to give him.

            “Slow down” he says.

            Meaning, I’m going to make him come and he doesn’t want to yet. Fuck that, old man, I mentally reply. He comes. I’m a dick-sucking magician. A magician who used to swallow, but over the last few years I’ve been like, why? Now I let them jizz on my lips and let it work into their skin and down their shaft with my fingers. Job accomplished, I jumped up and swish to the bathroom. I pee, wash my hands, and spit silently into the sink. I’m always a saliva-lube waterfall the minute we finish. Is it weird that I don’t want him to hear me spit? The doors at this hotel are completely ridiculous and offer almost no sound proofing; in fact, with the bouncy walls and large mirror, it’s like a recording booth. Who the fuck decided to put sliding glass doors in a hotel room?! The silent spitting is so he doesn’t think I’m holding out on him. I think too much.  

            I walked back out.

            “You are awesome” he says.

            “Thanks, babe! It takes two to tango. The bathroom is all yours.” Aka, get the fuck up and leave, please. He stands and shuffles to the echo chamber to do his business. I throw a pair of underwear on and sit on the bed. We check our schedules when he returns. It’s part of our routine. We’re booked for the next two and a half months. We kiss one more time and he leaves. I pull jeans on, change my shirt, and lie on “my” queen bed. I have that certain calm and peacefulness that happens after I get paid.

 

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